Don't Cross The Bridge Til You Come

Take This Sorrow To Thy Heart And Make It Part Of Thee, And It Shall Nourish Thee Till Thou Art Strong Again.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

Look Not Mournfully Into The Past. It Comes Not Back Again.

A Single Conversation Across The Table With A Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Mere Study Of Books.